Frying Pan

A short story

The note said Phil Jenkins was waiting to punch my head in, coz he said I was stupid. Jenkins was two years above me, a foot taller, and, unlike me, a fighter. I had to make my escape.

I had only ever been to the shopping centre on the weekend before. Then, it had buzzed with crowds, and I could lose myself, unnoticed among the throng. Now, at 10;30 on a Wednesday morning, all I could do was pretend to stare in the shop windows. I could see the reflections as everybody gave me sideways looks.

What was a schoolboy doing out of school at this time of day?

I couldn’t go home yet. Mum would be furious. I ran across the field that backed onto the school cricket pitches, hoping to avoid being seen by Jenkins or any of his gang.

I hopped over the fence and slunk into the woods. A small stream burbled. Sounds of unseen woodland creatures the only interruption to my contented quiet. My den was a hollow beneath the roots of an enormous oak tree. Of course, I didn’t know what kind of tree it was then. And it doesn’t really matter unless you’re looking for my grave.

This tree was distinctive because the ground had been worn away, and its giant roots were exposed for almost a metre before they buried themselves beneath the earth again. Leaving just enough room for me to squeeze into my little cabin in the woods. Safe and away from the world behind tree-root bars.

I heard the giant beast return. A low rumble. No doubt in my mind that it had returned to evict me, the squatter, from its nest beneath the tree. I held my breath. Relief. It wasn’t the giant beast but a battered old Land Rover which trundled slowly down the slope, passing right in front of my hiding place and injecting a plume of stinky blue smoke.

It stopped in the gully at the bottom of the slope. Two men got out and looked around before opening the back door. They wore army trousers and jackets but weren’t from the army. The taller of the two men grabbed a spade and started digging. He seemed very strong and made easy work of the loose soil. The other man swept his long greasy hair from his face as he took a screwdriver from his pocket and swapped the out-of-state licence plates for local ones. It took both of them to drag the rolled-up carpet from the back of the Land Rover. As they yanked it free, a pale, flabby arm flopped out. Their load dropped to the ground sending the autumn leaves dancing into the air like one of those snowstorm paperweights. I had never seen a dead body before, but I wasn’t afraid. I knew what it was. Here was my chance. Wriggling free from my hiding place, I ran down the incline towards them.

“Hey, fellas. I’ve five dollars. Will that be enough for you to kill Phil Jenkins for me?”

It wasn’t.